 |
| (Trump's Rug Emporium, artist's conception) |
We've had a copy of Art of the Deal by Donald Trump on display by the register the last couple of weeks and it's been an entertaining ride. The college town used book demographic isn't receptive to The Donald's message and I regularly find it turned around, face toward the shelf, or carried off to assorted faraway sections (favorite destination so far: smut). The few grudge bearing oldsters asking after it have been put off by the $15 price tag (which is a deal, we could get $20 for it on Amazon right now).
But today The Art of the Deal found its soulmate in a cranky, piss-stinking borderline homeless dude with black fingernails.
I've seen him around town for a while, but never in the shop. He was grumbling past the door when he looked up, spotted Trump on display and bee-lined inside. He dropped it on the counter, muttering something about holding it, then vanished into the depths of the shop, trailing an ammoniac stench cloud strong enough to make me consider just booting him on the spot. But the place was fairly empty, so I held off.
He came back up with a paperback copy of 'the Text of the New Testament' by Metzger.
"Gimme this for a dollar."
I checked the price.
"It's seven dollars plus tax."
"UUUuuuuuuhn." he groaned, spinning toward the door.
He stopped short at the sale cart, and after a grunting, grumbling pause returned with two quarter books which I rang up.
"That'll be fifty four cents."
He dug through his pockets, piling half a microwave burrito, a dirty sock, a handful of Taco Bell Mild sauce packets and a selection of wadded up napkins on the counter. He became frustrated, grunting "MONEY" before hurriedly shoveling his debris back into their pockets of origin and stomping out.
The fellow behind him in line failed to take this display in stride, and was further unnerved by the aggrieved shouts of "FUCKING....MONEY!" echoing through the doorway from the sidewalk.
I figured that for the end of the saga, but ten minutes later he was back, gripping a dollar in one weathered paw like the last flower of spring. I rang up the cart books again, and he croaked out
"I need dimes. Dimes, for the bus. More dimes."
So, I gave him all dimes and a few pennies, which he counted out three times before they went to join the burrito in the abyss. He gestured sweepingly at the Trump book still sitting on the counter.
"HOLD THAT for me, I'll be back tonight. Fifteen fucking dollars!"
Will update if he makes it back.
No comments:
Post a Comment